


Hush

by Fayola



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, that's all it is okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayola/pseuds/Fayola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift gets a little noisy. Ratchet doesn't mind. (Not one fragging bit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> An excerpt from Ratchet and Drift's Most Excellent Extended Honeymoon. Welcome back to the comic, mechs, hope you don't mind if I continue to write/read self-indulgent speculation as to what you got up to while you were away.

     Some days he misses the _Lost Light_. The vibrant energy of so many fields and auras, the noise and bustle that never quite fades, the barely-controlled chaos that Drift has come to associate with _life_. But there is something to be said about solitude.

     Well, near-solitude.

     Drift rarely has time to feel lonely. The almost-too-small shuttle does not provide many opportunities to retreat into total isolation. He is constantly bumping elbows with Ratchet, both literally and figuratively. Not that Ratchet seems to mind.

     Sometimes he is quite. Hm, _demonstrative_ when it comes to how much he doesn’t mind.

     It takes Drift months to stop being surprised whenever Ratchet decides to follow up an accidental bump with a calculated caress and a deliberate push. As if it hasn’t happened dozens of times already, he still gasps against the lips pressed firmly to his own, still moans when a glossa slips in at the unintentional invitation. His knees still weaken when broad chestplates shove against him and pin him to the bulkhead. Or control panel, or chair, or floor, or berth.

     He is still surprised at how rarely it seems to be that last option, considering how often Ratchet complains of sore spinal struts. For all the meticulous patience Ratchet exudes in the medbay, he seems to have none when it comes to Drift. Or at least when it comes to fragging him.

     Despite how eagerly Ratchet takes advantage of their privacy, parts of Drift seem to have a hard time forgetting. Habitual glances over the shoulder never reveal lurkers around the corner. Furling his EM field tight to his plating never spares him the embarrassment of unintentionally bleeding his emotions into another’s field. Returning Ratchet’s rather shameless flirtations in hushed tones does not prevent eavesdroppers from overhearing.

     But old habits are hard to kill, and some have been ingrained for too many millennia.

     Drift doesn’t know if it is habit that has him tamping down on his vocalizer during interfacing, or if it is surprise at how great his desire is to moan and scream like the cheap buymech he once was. He tries not to think too hard about it, because regardless the reason, the shame of it both from memories past and emotions current is enough to keep him in check.

     Arms braced against the bulkhead in front of him, Drift allows an elbow to buckle and he buries his face in the joint. Muffled cries eek through clenched dentae.

     Ratchet slows, and Drift nearly cries from frustration. Focused on ventilating shakily, he jumps when a deep chuckle sounds so close to his audial.

     “Just who the frag are you holding back for?” Ratchet all but _purrs_ , and the gravelly, static-laced tones send a shiver ripping through Drift’s frame and a gasp escaping his lips. “You really think the neighbors are gonna complain?”

     The teasing words are punctuated with a harsh thrust, and then another when Drift can’t help but cry out loud, and then another, and Drift can’t hold back any longer, doesn’t _want_ to hold back, for once he wants to cry out his pleasure and _mean it_. A jumbled mixture of his god’s and his lover’s names fall from his lips, peppered with entreaties of _yes_ and _more_ and _please please oh pleeeease_.

     “Oh, Drift, _yes_ ,” Ratchet breathes, hot and heavy against his audial. The sting of dentae and the slick of a glossa against his helm flares wring a wail from Drift, and Ratchet’s sudden moan vibrating against sensitive plating prompts another. “That’s it, sweetspark, let go. Please, I want to _hear you_ , _let go_ for me, Drift…”

     And he does.

     It helps that Ratchet, voice low and husky and _gorgeous_ , keeps moaning endearments and encouragement right against his audial. It helps that the EM field enmeshed within his own keeps flaring with _arousal/affection/desire/need_ so strongly. It helps that nimble red hands stop caressing his plating in favor of gripping tightly, arms wrapped around his chest and stomach, anchoring him. It helps, and is enough to distract Drift from himself long enough for overload to slam through his spark and send fire curling through his lines.

     He’s still moaning and whimpering when some of his senses return a moment later, but so is Ratchet, so he can’t find the will to make himself stop. Limp in the medic’s arms, he allows himself to be dragged to the floor. After another moment, he realizes the sounds coming from Ratchet are actually words, staticky though they may be.

     “So gorgeous, you’re so fragging _gorgeous_ ,” he is saying, and while the words are not new, the tone of awe is. “Thank you, Drift, that was… slag me, that was _incredible_ , I just –“

     Drift interrupts him with a chuckle.

     “Think I’m s’posed to be saying that to _you_ , Ratch,” he croaks, voice raw and hoarse and still entirely unsteady, rather ruining the tone of teasing nonchalance he’d been going for, but he is none too fussed about it. Not when his circuits are still zinging in this extended afterglow.

     “Oh, hush,” Ratchet admonishes softly, trailing soft kissed along Drift’s shoulder.

     “But I thought you wanted me to make more noi-“

     “Oh, _hush_.”

     Drift can’t fight the post-overload lethargy in time to ward of the attack. He shrieks as Ratchet buries his faceplates in his neck and blows hard, razzing hypersensitive neck cables.

     “Okay, _okay, I give!_ ” Drift hoots, twisting against the iron grip about his middle in a desperate bid to maneuver away from the relentless tickling. “C’mon! Leggo!”

     “Never,” Ratchet growls, and the fierce promise in that tone is enough to send another jolt of pleasure through juddering through his still ramped up frame. Ratchet’s engine purrs in approval, and he goes back to peppering soft kisses across warm plating.

     The hold loosens back into a pleasantly tight cuddle, and Drift relaxes into the solid warmth behind him. He briefly entertains the idea of finding their berth, but dismisses it with a contented hum. He has everything he needs right here.


End file.
